The Silent Measure of a Tin Man's Heart
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: A very dark take on the Cain/DG pairing. For throughout everything, DG realizes that she cannot let her Tin Man go, just as death will not hinder him in his duty to her, his princess—no matter the scrap of metal beating in place of a heart.


Disclaimer: I do not own Tin Man, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to RHI Entertainment and the SciFi Channel. I am not writing this for profit, merely for entertainment—especially for us Tin Man fans! ;)

Summary: A very dark take on the Cain/DG pairing. For throughout everything, she realizes that she cannot let him go, just as death will not hinder him in his duty to her, his princess—no matter the scrap of metal beating in place of a heart.

The Silent Measure of a Tin Man's Heart

The beating of his heart is the first thing she hears when she awakens, and the last thing she hears when she gives in to the nightmares. For there she is, a crown princess of the realm of the O.Z., thrust into her night-time reverie of what could and could not be. She is caught in between two worlds, perilously existing in a fixed state of suspension as the need to heed the alluring sounds of the Otherside—cries of voices familiar to her and not—tempts her beyond imagination.

Like the nascent pinpricks of a growing fascination that induce the mind to obedience, they call out for her to deny this parallel realm of existence, to renounce this chaotic nightmare that has become her life, forsake her family, forget everything believed important, cast aside her responsibilities, live for herself, abandon him. She hesitates at the last. For even in dreams does she realize that to leave him, would not only break her heart—however metaphorically clichéd as the comparison indubitably was, since hearts cannot literally _break_—but his as well. She almost sighs, remembering.

She remembers seeing him for the first time: his hair overgrown, lank and dull and tarnished silver by years of imprisonment in a heartless tin suit. His eyes were the color of the sky, of the deepest, darkest part of the ocean, of the coldest, hardest ice, eyes the color of a grave and silent death, of the beginnings of life. She frowns, fearing that she is waxing poetic—and perhaps she is—of a man whose mannerisms were as different and unequivocally diverse to hers as night is to day. If only he were to realize how true the comparison really was, for those eyes…

It had been no secret that, throughout their journey to find the Emerald and save the O.Z., she had caught his gaze on occasion, those eyes regarding her with something other than his having a mild interest in her, that Othersidermess as strange and alluring as a freak show's grand attraction. No, there had been something more than just his simply keeping an 'eye on her', even if the Tin Man himself had yet to realize it. For when he looked at her, she could swear that he read her mind, that profound intensity in his gaze never leaving her, searing her completely in a ball of cold fire. She feels it even know, even when he is at her side, guarding her, those eyes, she knows, open to all, that mind aware of the slightest movement, his breathing that of a cool whisper—an illusion.

She sets the truth of it aside, rejecting it completely. She wants to think of something else, to deny everything she understands as real, as she knows, deep down, that the only time she can escape his silent vigil is in her dreams. He cannot follow her there—even when she realizes that he wishes to be there, as well. But Ambrose cannot manage that for him; he will not, for even with only a fraction of his genius restored, could he dare consider constructing a device that would allow the princess' bodyguard—her very husband—that single luxury to see into her dreams, to _know_. The Queen's advisor would lose what little mind he has left, as he is often reminded of the fact when he sees her, and the part he had to play in the monster he created.

DG's face falls at the grim comparison, since that is not how she sees him—not her Tin Man—as the others, her own beloved mother, who is, unfortunately included in that vast foray of dissention, do. They are cordial to him, as always, relatively pleasant in their many discourses with him, kind but distant when they see him with her. They can be nothing more than that to him—not even when he is the consort to one of the princesses of the O.Z. In truth, they live in a state of disbelief, a perpetual fear hanging about them, like the heavy robes they wear for a royal coronation.

_Even Ahamo, my own father, who is even more open to the strange and bizarre, cannot bring himself to see past the exterior_, she thinks to herself, disappointed in her father, as well as the rest of her family. Only Ambrose, Raw, Toto, and her sister treat her husband as they knew him—from _before_.

And Jeb…

She cannot consider him—not now, as thoughts of him only add another layer of pain to a wound already unable to heal.

Time stops then—if only for a fraction of a second—as her ruminations take hold of her every thought, possessing her, tormenting her with the terrible knowledge of something darker than memories—darker, even, than what she encountered in the Witch's cave.

Her eyes close, and she feels herself transported, to that one instance of time she wishes to forget most—to that terrible moment _when_ _he_ _died_. She knows she is going to relive it all again; as _that_ is her reason for escaping him, since she cannot bring herself to allow him to relive those lost, pain-filled moments of humanity, his heart—his _real_ heart—beating for the last time.

…

"_You have to save him! We both know that Raw is unable to do anything now. You're the only one who can!" she cried out, a multitude of unshed tears threatening to fall as she stared upon the lifeless form laying upon the table, a sheet covering its motionless body. Blood stained the blue blanket, saturating it, darkening it to a crude, dark violet. Her heart ached at the sight of it, and her eyes closed as she turned away, no longer able to bear the sight, where only a whisper echoed her internal struggle, "Please."_

_The Queen's advisor—albeit now restored to his former station, and going by his real name, but who still remained simply and utterly Glitch to her—only shook his head. There was sadness in his eyes when he spoke: "I can't do that, princess. You know I can't."_

"_But you can _try_," she pressed. "Nothing is stopping you from at least that much. Please, Glitch," she begged, her lip trembling, as she could only allow the tears to fall as she looked upon the blood stained on her emerald gown, _his_ blood, "I cannot lose him."_

_Ambrose sighed, and glanced at the still figure not five feet from him. It had barely been three annuals since the Eclipse, since the darkness had been banished from the O.Z. And yet, it seemed, some shadows still lingered in the desolate, barren regions of the north. Remnants of the Witch's army, along with her followers, had remained, and, as a consequence, posed a viable threat to the royal family. _

_As such, Cain had taken over the task in overseeing the royal family's military operatives; though, in reality, his main purpose, at least to the queen and her consort, was to look after their youngest daughter. And no one could deny that the former Tin Man took his charge seriously, as Raw and Tutor were want to agree._

_Of, course, neither the Viewer, nor the royal family's Tutor could deny the truth, just as Ambrose, who was now looking at all of it in retrospect, found himself only dismayed by the outcome of it, his mind conflicted. He looked down, his eyes shifting to the cold black marble floor. "This is not a mere machine that simply needs to be repaired, DG," he said, uttering her name, and not her title, for the first time. He looked up at her, matching her gaze. "Sometimes, you must let the things you care for most go, even if it hurts and you regret it."_

_But DG refused to accept the truth in her friend's words, just as she refused to accept the inevitable. "I cannot lose him, Glitch. He died saving me." Her head inclined forward in shame. "It's my fault that he did. If I hadn't gone out on my own. If I had stayed in the palace like he told me to. If I hadn't been so damn selfish to have my own way…If I had only turned in time to see—" She could not finish, as she felt the comfort of friend's arms encircle her through the painful sobs which wracked her. "He died for _me_, Glitch. The least I can do is bring him back," she muttered against the folds of his uniform, her tears staining it to an even darker brown. She looked up, carelessly wiping the tears from her eyes—those eyes, which held the power and beauty of something that even Ambrose himself, could never dare fathom—and he was one of the O.Z.'s most philosophical of minds. "I will not let him go."_

_And Ambrose knew she would not. For even without his aid, he knew she would find the means to return her Tin Man—as he had been solely in the services of the royal family; or, more aptly, in the services of protecting DG—to the world of the living, to the O.Z., to her side, as it should have been. He relented then, giving in to her request._

"_Then you have my mind, such that it presently may be," he answered, his sober expression brooking no argument—even against his own, better judgment. "I'll do this, DG, but you must know that your mother, as well as everyone in the O.Z., will not look upon this kindly, since this is not along the same circumstances as your mother saving you. Are you willing to accept the consequences, should I do this? Can you accept the possibility that this may not work, and the possibility that it might? Can you live with yourself, and this choice you are about to make? There is no going back once I do this," he warned her, and, noting her acceptance, nodded. "I want you to leave until I call for you; bolt the door, and let no one in. I really should hate to face your mother's wrath should this end badly."_

_DG's eyes widened in sudden recognition; a flash of familiarity from the Otherside. It was the like the wish the old woman and man had made in lieu of their son's death in The Monkey's Paw: well-meaning and foolishly selfish at the same time. But her Tin Man had not been cut up in some freak accident with machinery; she had to remind herself of that. He had been shot—several times, in fact—as his body was mostly, if not still intact. He was missing no limbs, no disfigurement visible…at least from what she could see of him. She could only imagine what lay underneath that bloodied sheet: a beating heart she knew to be there no more …_

_Nevertheless, DG silently agreed; her gaze once again falling upon the sheet and the body underneath. She took an involuntary step forward, belatedly finding the strength—if not some last vestige of courage—courage that he had, to her agony—instilled in her, to stand at his side. He looked so cold lying there, so elegantly drawn in repose. Frozen. His stern expression was emphasized by the heavy loss of blood, his short, golden hair that of a god's. She nearly turned away from him, a brave hand the only thing restraining her, as it fell upon those cold lips, tinged blue by death._

_It was then that she found her mouth upon his. Without thought or fear of the consequences for her actions, she expressed her grief in the only way she knew, this hysterical girl who was barely a woman kissing a dead man in a makeshift morgue as one of her closest friends who, even with only half a brain, was still made fully aware of her intentions, looked on. It was ridiculous, in a way—asinine, as her mother would say, that a princess, who had, until now, found herself kept at a modest distance from the former Tin Man, was rewarding him for saving her by kissing him. She never realized that she would do so in death, however. She looked upon his face. His eyes were closed to her; and although she knew he could not hear her—would never hear her if Ambrose failed—she nevertheless whispered something that only he would hear._

_Ambrose turned away from the solemn exchange, finding such too delicate, too intimate to be made witness to—even when he, if in part, strained to hear what had been said._

_DG looked away then, and departed from his side, her eyes falling upon a sympathetic Ambrose. He nodded as those sapphire eyes implored of him to go through with this. Cain would understand; he would not want her left behind, made vulnerable to another threat—not as Adora had been. He would want to return, to be here—not only because of his son, who really, no longer needed him—but with her. It was this sole assurance that made Ambrose agree to such madness._

_Thus committed, he took her hand, and had her to once again look upon the fallen Tin Man. "He will have to have a new heart, that much is certain," Ambrose muttered quietly, factually, though having the kindness _not_ to show her the gaping hole which had been concealed by the sheet, as the bloodstain above it—the area most saturated with his blood, which only entailed the shattered mass of bone and muscle—was mercifully kept hidden from DG's sight. _

_He caught her stare, those brown eyes once again assuring her that it was not too late to say no, to forget this conversation had ever taken place._

_But again, his princess denied him; and he could only concede, knowing that he would rather face losing the other half of his mind, than to see DG in pain a moment longer. He told her to leave then, promising her that he would see to the necessary arrangements—arrangements that required something other than a grave and coffin. He felt her kiss his cheek then, those wide eyes full of an emotion that he could only deem as appreciation. He told her to go, as both knew, however much they wished to believe otherwise, that this would be the last she would see Wyatt Cain as she knew him._

…

_And it was_, DG thinks to herself, finding that the genius which made her friend so brilliant had been expressed in its highest form—its greatest excellence, even—when it fashioned her failing hopes into something beyond despair. For within the course of a day and a night, Ambrose worked tirelessly, secretly fashioning a miracle in the lab which DG had guarded from without. Ambrose had made good use of the time allotted him, on the _creation_ underneath his bloody, blackened hands.

Blood mixed with oil, flesh with tin, as he joined the opposing parts together in some crude formation of a man. For like notes in a composition, the human and elemental segments of its measure only made the movement even more meaningful when combined; as everything from the use of electricity, to injecting heavy doses of lithium and cadmium into an interlocking network of veins and wires had been used. A plethora of elements, lethal to the human body, had been at the advisor's disposal.

Ambrose often scratched his head on occasion—a nervous tendency provoked by his Glitch-like self—as it unapologetically disturbed the zipper at its center. He had even expressed his vexations verbally, muttering a few choice words under his breath as he worked. Mercifully, however, DG had been oblivious to the mild string of curses uttered over the Tin Man as Ambrose found it time to call her in. He needed her for the final part of this crazed endeavor, as it had been more than the mechanical genius of Ambrose that saved Cain, but a combination of wizardry and magic which had, somehow, managed to combine both science and the supernatural into a single, coherent means to restore life where it had been taken. No one could deny that Wyatt Cain had died that day, his body riddled in bullets, that golden face rendered pale, the final breath—with DG's name on it—drawn before succumbing to death.

People had believed DG in a state of mourning, though, in reality, she had hidden herself away in the bowels of the castle, cloistering herself amid a makeshift lab where the fallen, former Tin Man lay: cold and dead and cut up on a table. For while her family made preparations for a funeral that would surely be just as regal—if not as opulent and reserved as funerals entitled to royal family members only could be—for one of the Four who had saved the O.Z., the one who had surrendered his life to save a crown princess, and thus ensured that the great House of Gale would never be torn asunder again, would be granted a hero's remembrance.

Wyatt Cain had accomplished this, fulfilled his final duty; and a memorial service would be held in his honor, as all within the realm of the O.Z. would, out of respect, attend. _That_ had been the intent made on behalf of the royal family—for the good of the realm and its many peoples, but especially for those he once considered friends. Though unsurprisingly, as those closest to the fallen hero commenced to dress in the crimson garbs of mourning, terribly embattled and subdued in their task as they had been, DG was below, making preparations for his return.

DG mental shakes her head. It was a cruel deception, to deceive her family so, she realizes, but to see _him_ breathe again…was well worth any lie she could impart to them. And she would do so again, gladly even, so as long as she can keep him with her.

She remembers being called in after hours of waiting, with only her thoughts to keep her company. She remembers the moment she entered past the door's threshold, her eyes falling on the unmoving figure in front of her. She remembers how still he laid there, a new sheet replacing the bloodied one. She remembers how she reacted at the sight of it, and the comforting feel of Ambrose's hand as it rested on her shoulder.

"_I've done all I can for him,"_ he had said to her in confidence, those gentle brown eyes warm and full of tender affability. _"Now, all that is left for you is to bring day to his darkness. Help him find the light, princess."_

And she did.

Leaning down, she found herself drawing nearer to that cold, marble face, her mouth beginning to quaver as it was only a whisper away from his. She closed her eyes, remembering his every feature, his every flaw and perfection, before placing those trembling lips against his as the light—that glorious white radiance—poured forth from those very gateways of breath, into him.

She barely remembers what happened after, since she recalls only hearing a gasp—that single, most precious sign of life—stir from underneath. His breathing had come out in short, staggering breaths before slowing to that of a normal rhythm. She remembers that she almost said his name, almost placed her head against his chest, to hear what was surely a new heart underneath, but stopped herself.

_I was afraid_, she recalls to herself quietly. _I was afraid of what he would say, of what he would do once he realized what she had done. But most of all, I was afraid of what he wouldn't do, what he wouldn't say. Would he hate me for his death, for bringing him back from the unknown?_ she wonders, and then considers other possibilities. Had he been reunited with his wife, before being cruelly returned to a life without her, a life he would, perhaps, now regret? She cannot say for a certainty. Even now, she doesn't know how he first felt about her bringing him back. She doubts she ever will—not completely, anyway.

DG looks down. Perhaps it had been selfish of her, but she could not bring herself to let him go—not then, and certainly not now. No, she does not regret her decision, cannot regret it. For how can she, when she remembers hearing his voice for that very first time, after being torn away from the arms of Death, and hearing her name uttered in the most gentlest and heartfelt of whispers? She cannot. As she hears it even now, thrumming in concord with the origin that brought it into existence.

She is awake now, though her eyes remain closed. She does not move, does not speak; only listens to that wondrous mechanism under her ear. Its song is a rhythm, deep entrenched in a vibrant composition of sound. She almost smiles, though dares not, for fear that he will know she is feigning sleep. She wants this moment without his awareness; wants this moment spent in the knowledge that he is here, with her, and that his heart is not something made of her own wishful thinking. She wants this moment to herself. She is grateful for its continued persistence, in keeping him a breath away from the unknown. However, in spite of her own happiness, she realizes that not everyone shares in her delight.

To say that her family had been overwrought with the knowledge of Cain's apparent resurrection would be an understatement. Her mother had been beyond upset, to know that DG had given up the power of the Gale line—even if was for the one who had saved her—to a commoner. It was a transgression not easily overlooked—especially since most within the O.Z. would realize that their queen and her consort's youngest daughter could not rule, having forgone that right when relinquishing something only those of royal blood were meant to have: the light. And now she had given it to another—a Tin Man of all people. It was not to be borne. Nor idly forgiven, even if it pained the royal household to admit as much. Her mother had been powerless to circumvent the course her daughter had taken, her own magic unable to lift what could not be undone.

And so, in the interim of a private, family meeting, DG was made aware of what she had done, and how irreparable the damage she had unknowingly caused was. The responsibility to follow in her mother's rule had fallen upon the shoulders of a very reluctant Azkadellia, who stood by her sister's side, championing DG like the elder sister she had been so long ago.

"_I am glad of DG bringing him back," _she had baldly told both parents, and she gave her sister an admirable look._ "At least he cares for her enough to remain with her, and to not look upon her with revulsion or disappointment. At least he _does_ care, unlike those who _should_."_ She ignored her father's scowl, as her mother bristled under her sharp criticism. She had offended both, questioning their authority.

In a way, she was the Azkadellia of old: a trace of the sorceress she had been duly reflected in those cold, obsidian spheres of night. Even Ambrose had cringed at the sight of her: dark and empowering and terribly impressive in her modest Finaquarian-blue gown, those long white arms bent forward in irritation. She was a sight to behold: rigid and firm and terrifyingly unyielding, a veritable Valkyrie in her own right, albeit darker and more feminine in appearance. She had been positively terrifying then, and would thus be the antithesis of her mother's rule—Witch-induced or no.

DG smiles at the thought of Az, just as another recollection, one more shocking than Azkadellia's open defiance, came to mind. For she remembers Cain's suggestion that they marry.

Of course, as she now recalls, his proposal had not been one made out of love, or out of some mutual affection, that he believed buried somewhere, deep within, but strictly out of necessity. There was none of that romantically clichéd bending down on one knee, nor was there a tender declamation that bordered on the quixotic. No, Wyatt Cain was a man of practicality, and had thus made his intentions known, in the privacy of his office. He had proposed that they marry as if it were merely part of some Tin Man's protocol, before undergoing a dangerous suicide mission. There had been no kind way in expressing himself, no tender outpouring of Shakespearean love sonnets, only the cold reality of the scorn derived from those who disapproved of her—or, more aptly, of them.

Her eyes darken to a deep, impenetrable blue, when she recalls how he looked at her when he asked for her hand. There had been no happiness in those steel-gray eyes, no genuine delight in what he proposed they do. His schooled expression was that of cold indifference, disciplined by his many years as a Tin Man and beyond.

And yet, in spite of his front, which fooled even her mother, DG could see the truth behind those walls of ice, to where a truer emotion lay. His desire for her to accept his proposal resonated with only a genuine need in protecting her. His concern for her was genuine, truer in a sense that her other potential husbands could never dare hope to emulate.

But it had been not one of love.

As it was for that reason she hesitated in her answer. She had remained impressively silent throughout his explanations, certainly, listening to his many reasons on why they should wed; though none of it mattered—not when at least one of the reasons he had mentioned had been because he actually wanted her. He only saw her as a _child_—someone precious to him, wholly platonic in his regard for her—but nothing more. He could never see her as the woman she inherently was; for even with a second chance at life—which few rarely got—he was still blind to what lay before him.

She had denied him at first, rejecting his suit. She had done so before—several times, if the truth were to be told. All of the pompous, regulatory fops which strutted into the palace, casting an air of something no less than an emasculated male's overblown pride, would often present themselves to her, bowing humbly, before continuing in what would surely be, they hoped, the pleasure in acquiring her hand. Cain had been disgusted by their feeble attempts, though allowed DG the privilege in _kindly_ disappointing them and sending them on their way. If they protested, however, he would, just as _kindly_, step in, as none who dared linger ever remained in the queen's court for the night. Such had been their arrangement, a mutual agreement built on the foundation of a well-forged friendship.

But then, when it came to his offer of marriage…

It had been a terrible thing—she can now, openly, admit—to reject him so coldly.

For there she had been, standing before his heavy wooden desk as she defied his logic and his kindness, in not having her bearing the weight of her burden alone. He was willing to take up an iron shackle of matrimony, and thus condemn himself to a life in guarding one he considered to be no more than a daughter to him. It would have been sweet, had it not appeared so damnably incestuous—at least on his part, since DG never considered him much father material—not as _her_ father, anyway. She already had two fathers besides, and she certainly did not wish to make a motion for a third.

Really, a reformed hippie-turned-royal-consort and a robot were enough in the dad department; and as far as she was concerned, with the way her life was in its present state, she wanted something reflective to that parallel existence she had in a middle-to-nowhere town in the middle-of-nowhere Kansas. She wanted something to which she could relate, something she actually _remembered_, since finding a sense of normalcy in the O.Z., even now, was still something she had difficulty in adjusting to—and not because of want of trying.

No, for the past three years, she had tried to re-associate herself with the life she had forgotten, but her love of tinkering and riding motorbikes and simply being DG—the _Otherside_ DG—had conflicted terribly with her life as a princess. Azkadellia had no trouble in returning to a life of privilege and duty, for even when possessed she had retained a semblance of dignity, and actually remembered who she _was_. DG had not been afforded that same luxury, and now she was being pressed into a marriage she did not want—not in this circumstance—to a man who surely did not want her.

In truth, she'd hated that, hated him. She'd even hated the O.Z. and its ridiculous rules—especially those based on gender—in being an assiduous ruler of its realm; she hated her parents' failure to accept her, as well as for her many, _Othersider_ tendencies; she hated having to constantly appease those whom she did not know; she hated being deemed weak and insignificant by those she did; she hated being talked into saving herself—in living a life of relative obscurity—for the good of the O.Z.. Though most of all, she hated herself for allowing it, as she knew, from the moment she turned away from this most unwilling _suitor_ and went to stand by the office's balcony, that he would follow her, just as the soundless sentinel he inherently was. He'd hovered close, his hands resting on her shoulders, swaying her to his side. And she'd closed her eyes, since it did not take a rocket scientist to know that she had changed her mind: she would marry Wyatt Cain, a former Tin Man, returned to life through her own light. He was her responsibility now, just as she was his: an ouroboros in its most distorted representation—blasphemy in its highest form. God, how could she go through with it?

And yet, she had. She had managed such a Herculean effort with every atom in her body, even when what little reason she had screamed for her not to give in, not to succumb. But her resolution could not be swayed, her will set. She had chosen her wedding gown—a simple white ensemble of silk and pearls—with shoes to match. Her mother had cried at the simplicity in the dress, knowing that the ceremony itself would not be one of fond remembrance, as it was a simple affair, almost pedestrian in the eyes of those of the royal court.

Even so, many within the court had claimed it to be a peasant's wedding, since very few had been in attendance to see a mere Tin Man marry a princess of the O.Z. There was no Prince Charming on a gilded white horse come to rescue his Lady Fair from the dragon, no whirlwind courtship, no idyll of courtly love—and certainly no fairytale wedding that would be talked of for generations to come. There had been nothing of the sort; just a Tin Man, whose battered body and rusty broken heart, were the only things offered to one better deserving—for even that rusted old excuse of a heart would never be hers. But she would marry him; she promised him, after all. And DG was never really one for lying.

For within the course of a month, the wedding had taken place in the great hall of the Northern Palace. It was a simple ceremony, plain, without the pomp and flair accompanied with all royal weddings, which suited DG perfectly. She'd also known Cain's sentiments concerning the details of their wedding were mutual; just as she knew that, the fewer in attendance, the less there would be to despise his wretched existence. And yet, in spite of the ease she had felt considering such an occasion, the moment her eyes met his, as she walked down the aisle—which many a princess of the O.Z. had done before her, surely what her own greatest great-grandmother had done—and joined his side, had left her completely and hopelessly in awe of him. For there he'd stood, adorned in his captain's uniform, draped in dark-blue and gold, its midnight tones contrasting with his golden hair. And his eyes…

Even now, she cannot forget what she saw in those ice-fire eyes—the moment they had met hers. She closes her own, remembering, dreaming of what it was that she had seen: a faint glimmer of something she'd never believed there, flickering, almost fading into the nothingness from which it came. There had been a sliver of humanity remaining in those steel depths; for even after eight years in a tin prison—as a mechanical heart had taken the rest—she had seen it, somewhere under the ice. She remembers the moment his hand had taken hers before placing it over his heart—as was the custom of all wedding ceremonies in the O.Z.—before uttering the words which would forever bind them. He had been so calm then, so sure and sedate. He never hesitated in his vows, nor did he flinch when she uttered hers. She recalls how her heart nearly skipped when she felt him slip a ring on her finger, as she looked into his eyes and knew.

For a moment there, she'd forgot that her marriage was only of that of pity and obligation; where, for a moment, she'd forgotten that it was a piece of tin beating place of a heart. She had forgotten everything, as everyone, her friends and family included, did not exist to her at that moment. Only she and Cain, her now-husband, existed in the space between them. For when she'd looked into his eyes, and saw what mere words alone could not impart, she knew that she was not alone in this; for even if her parents and those of their acquaintance deserted her, she knew that he would never leave, never abandon her to the fate of being alone, an outcast among her own people.

It was all that he could offer her, all anyone could really offer; and DG accepted it, just as the kiss he imparted, chaste and innocent though it was in the eyes of those who looked on, lasted only a fraction less than what she had wanted it. It was almost like kissing winter: the feel of his lips, cold and frigid and leaving her utterly breathless against a wide expanse of white nothingness. It had taken all of her strength to turn away and face those waiting patiently before her, as she had to acknowledge their presence once again.

She had accepted her mother's arms and her father's smile, though she felt a sharp intake of pain from both. They hated to see her leave them in such circumstances, hated that it had come to this, as they allowed her to be lost in the wilderness beyond Central City—forever parted from the beauty and splendor of the O.Z.—where only those forsaken dwelled.

In the eyes of the court, she would no longer be welcome: a blight upon the splendor of those who carried a timeless radiance of the original Dorothy Gale—that same, _Othersider_ splendor which had flowed through her own veins. She was a disgrace to her name and family, if not her royal station. She had condemned herself the moment her lips touched his, the light of the O.Z. fading with that most profanely sacrosanct offering. It was an offering which could never be returned, nor used beyond its intent, since a man as Wyatt Cain could never be king.

And so it was that Wyatt Cain and his bride had stolen away into the night, where only a lamentable Ambrose and remorseful Azkadellia knew where the princess and Tin Man were bound. Queen Lavender Eyes and her consort could only surmise where their daughter had gone, fearful as they were if they, in time, were forced to impart such vital information to those with less than noble intentions. It was for the good of the O.Z. that they did not know; for had they indeed known the truth, they would have been horrified.

Azkadellia's magic had spun a world filled with wonder. With the remnants of what Mauritania had bequeathed whilst in possession of her, the heir to the Ozninian throne had fashioned a world reminiscent of both Kansas and the O.Z. She had created a realm where time was endless, unbound by the limiting constraints of the O.Z. and the Otherside, where those within would never age, never die. She alone had done this; and she had done so in the knowledge of protecting her sister, for who would deign to dream that the whereabouts of her sister, exiled though she was with naught but a former Tin Man to guard her, lay within a crystal mirror under the waters of Finaqua? Not even their mother, with her great gift of foresight, knew of DG's exact location, though she certainly had her suspicions.

Nevertheless, the lovers—as ironic as the description of their relationship appeared, even to DG—had seemingly disappeared from the face of the O.Z.; where though, in reality, they had never left the boundaries of the Southern Palace, as there they dwelled, in anonymity, beneath its tepid waters.

Though unbeknownst to DG, Azkadellia had watched them in the mirror before their figures were longer in sight.

_The former Sorceress __looked down then, and murmured something which the shadows only knew, the portal dissipating into the darkness. Azkadellia gave one last smile to where she had last seen her sister, where all that remained was a mirror, small and silvery and delicate. It fit in the palm of its maker's hand, and Azkadellia looked at it, half-admiring its intricate intake of swirls as a face—the very face of love—lay on its opposing side._

"_You really let her go, didn't you?"__ a voice said from behind, a pair of arms coming to hold her._

_Azkadellia closed her eyes, knowing their owner's touch all too well. __"It was for the best,"__ she muttered, and then turned to face him, those dark, fathomless eyes boring deeply into his. __"Was I wrong to send her? Tell me, Ambrose, was it really for the best?"_

_His only response was a solitary smile, before being pulled close, with thoughts of her sister still lingering, still so painfully fresh—even when she felt the comforting feel of Ambrose's lips—as she knew what was bound to happen within the realm beyond a magic looking glass. She did not disclose her thoughts, however, for she felt that much would have to happen before that heart her sister wished to claim would again begin to beat. Turning, Azkadellia left the solace of the half-sane advisor's arms, the mirror held tightly in her hand. She looked down at it, a final whisper of happiness, before casting it into the dark watery depths beyond. She looked forlornly at the beauty those calm waters imparted, and she turned, falling again into the comforting embrace of her own love, just as she, despite her own reservations, felt that her sister deserved the same—somewhere in a world where only dreams thrived in the solitude of the shadows surrounding them._

_Such had been the hope that Azkadellia bore for her little sister—a hope that, one day, DG and her Tin Man would return to a world that was sorely in need of them, just as she believed that, even now, her sister had begun an arduous quest all of her own, in the arms of one who could not admit that he loved again…_

DG smiles at the memory of her sister, recalling well how Azkadellia expressed her hopes, long after she'd departed from the realm of the O.Z. It had been Azkadellia's secret hope that DG had a night that all brides could only yearn to have, with a husband that she _loved_.

For the wedding night—if DG were to actually call it such—had been a terrible affair, some Frankensteinian nightmare brought to life through some patched-up rendition of _true love's kiss_. She frowns at the analogy, though secretly admits—if only to herself—that the comparison had been a very apt description of the unease she had felt around Cain at the time. He'd barely given her a chaste kiss at their own wedding, let alone acknowledged her presence when those who actually attended the ceremony left. He did not even share the bed that night, as was his husbandly right.

No, instead he had chosen to play the part of a perfect, chivalrous knight of old, as he left her there: chaste and innocent and irredeemably alone in their cold marriage bed. Pity it must have been on his part, when he foolishly believed that he had left her mind just as chaste; he had no knowledge of the sexual education classes she had taken, nor the many references she had heard _and_ seen pertaining to such a delicately intimate subject.

She almost laughs at the thought, for had he known that one of her potential love interests from the Otherside, who had attempted to express his love for her in a more provocative manner, during their high school's homecoming party, he would have surely traversed to the Otherside, and found one Andrew Lewis, a former track star and college drop-out, with two missing teeth—compliments of DG herself—and having an abnormal fear of women with wide, blue eyes.

Of course, such matters little now: the dynamic in their tumultuous relationship had changed, as when a rainstorm shatters a beautiful day with its dark overcast. For in the many months after their marriage, Cain had not once touched his bride—not intimately, at any rate—as his careful distancing himself of the fact that their marriage had transpired eluded her completely. At the time, DG could scarcely understand his logic, in keeping her at a distance, never once allowing her to touch him; he even flinched at the feel of her hand on his when he had injured it with a knife one evening.

The blood had been the same as hers: warm, thick, and darkly inviting. As even now, she vaguely wonders its taste. Would it be bitter and metallic, or be as sweet as antifreeze? The only real difference between hers and his was that it was now mixed with oil. She almost rolls her eyes. As stubborn as he was then, he would not even acknowledge that anything about him had changed. And even if he did, he'd chosen to keep it to himself.

It nearly drives her mad at times, that willful nature of his. Just as his Boy Scout Syndrome—as Ambrose often described Cain's stubborn tendencies—well defined the sheer pig-headedness of men. For indeed, if DG were to agree with her mother's advisor, Cain would certainly be the epitome of that psychologically sardonic belief. But it was mainly his consistency in remaining close to her—even dwelling amidst the safety of her sister's protective magic—that drove her off the edge _that_ _day_. She had almost become an object to him, an objective to be carried out over a lifetime. She was merely a sense of duty to him and nothing more.

And it was for this reason that DG decided it best to escape him.

It had been a rainy day in the otherwise Utopian paradise her sister had made for them. The inclement weather was fitting, though, as it complimented her present mood. For there had been trouble in paradise, as both husband and wife had already had an argument over the meaning of their relationship. She wanted him to be open; he preferred to be closed in his emotions, and it seemed that the no-nonsense Tin Man in him was winning.

She sighs at the recollection of it. It was a rather stupid thing to do, really—running off like that. But it was _his_ fault. If not for that damned indifference of his, she would not have left him—then, anyway. She almost balks at the memory of her being in the room he had made her claim for her own. She had vaguely caught his shape, out in the rain, chopping wood. She grimaced at his mechanical movements, robotic, and only emitting a fraction of the life his human self had once exerted. She turned away, for if he sensed her staring, then he had chosen to ignore it, just as he chose to ignore her.

She was out then, escaping through the back door where he could not see her. Rain besieged her in all directions, pelting her with ice-cold shards of an autumn deluge. She had shuddered at the feel of it at first, but then became as numb to it as the numbness in her heart, just as the shelter she found—a meager ledge—concealed her from the affliction without. She remembers having sung _November Rain_, idly thinking of Axel Rose and Guns and Roses. She was halfway through the second chorus when she heard something, off in the distance. She barely registered the swift pull of a pair of arms, as the entwined around her, forcing her into the rain.

"_What the hell do you think you were doing, worrying me like that? Damn it, DG!"_ an all-too-familiar voice had demanded of her.

DG had the good sense not to look into the eyes of her husband, knowing that she would regret what she saw in them. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she muttered, almost mechanically, and lifted her chin to an almost imperial manner. "I am a _princess_ in the O.Z., and I have nothing to explain you, _Tin Man_," she spat, though it pained her to say it. She had never pulled the princess card on anyone—including all of her would-be suitors—but she had on her closest friend. Looking up, she met his gaze, ashamed, trying to explain. "Cain—"

But he silenced her in his frustration, shaking her, calling her an idiot, but then just as shockingly holding her close, unable to let go. There was no one to watch, no one to see what had transpired between them. It was just him, her, and the driving rain which had, ironically, seemed to bring them together. In a way, it was quite fitting, for both loved rainstorms.

The embrace only lasted for a moment, though it seemed almost an eternity before Wyatt Cain—a man whose composure rarely faltered, even in the wake of staring down a loaded gun—composed himself. But then, he had not released her, either—something that both noted.

"_You gave me a start, kid,_" he had said at length, his eyes trained on the terrain behind her. "_Never expected you to cower off like that. I guess I was wrong_."

DG only frowned. _"Cain..."_

But again, he silenced her with a firm shaking of his head. _"Don't,"_ he muttered, before turning away. _"Not a word, princess._"

And yet, Cain should have known that DG had never been one to keep silent for long. Ignoring him completely, she pulled out of the hastily-contrived embrace, her back now facing him. She remained silent for a moment, before speaking her thoughts.

"_You know, I had believed you better than this, that you at least had the decency to tell me the truth."_ She had turned to him then, those gentle blue eyes sad in their resolve. _"Husbands are not supposed to keep secrets from their wives—unless it is a present, that is," _she hastily amended, almost earning from him a laugh. Fair enough. At least the ice had been broken between them' however, he had failed to answer her question. Of course, she should have expected no less of him; Cain was never one to verbally disclose anything regarding the emotions of the human heart—not since before the Eclipse, when most believed that it would be the end. Even Jeb, who had found his father again, learned all too quickly that his father still had yet to unthaw the frozen barrier which kept his heart locked in eternal winter. He could not even confirm her worst fears, just as the ambiguity of the relationship forced her to acknowledge that she would, perhaps, never know.

He had been the one to make the first move, however. _"DG..."_

There was no princess. No my lady. No kid. Just DG.

She looked at him with her wide blue eyes, wondering, not even daring to hope when she felt his hands clasp her shoulders.

But then he had turned to her, holding her close, that gravitational pull on her heart rocking her to her very core. She gave in to him, submitting to whatever design that methodical mind dare pose as he kissed her amid the falling rain for the first time. She almost cried against his mouth, that mouth which was so tender against hers, remitting. She could scarcely discern when the kissed ended, exactly—if it had indeed ended—as she could not recall having returned to the cottage, her clothes and hair sodden by the elements.

They broke apart soon after, both gasping for breath. She barely discerned what had happened, her head lying limply against his chest. She almost smiled, when she heard the pulsing sound of a beating heart underneath, its tone erratic, excited by what had just taken place between them. She smiled when she hear him whisper her name.

"_I thought the worst had happened, when I came in from the rain and could not find you,"_ he said, before placing a chaste kiss to her forehead—so like the Tin Man he was, and would ever be.

And DG smiled.

He has a new heart now, a new life filled with endless possibility. Winter had finally touched spring at last, as it melted away the barriers, both warm and frigid, into something not quite summer or winter, but something in between. She had been left in a state of shock, overcome by the change in him. His feelings had evolved into something she could never dare hope, something that she can, only now, begin to define.

Of course, her mother had grown white with shock, her former suitors appalled of having considered such a wild and unpredictable creature to court, when she and Cain, for only once, returned to the Palace. Her father had shown a fraction of disappointment, whereas her friends welcomed his return with open arms.

"_Raw glad Cain return,"_ the Viewer had said to his friend, before placing an assuring hand over the Tin Man's chest, to where the new heart lay. Raw had smiled then, as if genuinely pleased by his findings. _"Heart good one, has not lost itself."_ The Viewer had said no more, as he turned to DG, a bright glimmer in those black, black eyes. _"DG no longer sad. DG happy now."_

DG had looked up at the Viewer, with tears in her eyes. _"Yes, Raw, DG very happy."_

And it was true; everything she had said and done was true in every sense of the word. Even Jeb, reluctant as he was to accept her as his father's bride, no longer hates her to such a magnitude that he once did; his father will not let him. DG smiles, thinking of her _stepson_. Stepson. It is a daunting concept; but she accepts it, if only for Cain.

Cain.

He protects her as he has always done, lingers at her side in spite of the disappointment of his being her consort. He stays close, shielding her from the disapproving stares of her mother's court, which harbor only malcontent for her part in bringing a Tin Man to life. They recoil at her very presence, and thank God that her sister will instead become queen; for to have a consort, who was an _Othersider_ was scandalous enough, but to have a consort not even considered a man was unconscionable. They are relieved to know that neither resides at the palace, happy to leave them to their devices in some, simple little cottage out in the wilderness, a secret enclave designated only to them. Only Momster and Popsicle, a steadfast sister—albeit considered half-mad by many, but still the preferred choice for the heir apparent—and their closest friends who, on occasion, come to visit, bring a little piece of sunshine with them when they do. Even Toto, in spite of his initial reservations, comes, if only to remind his former pupil to continue in her daily practices in developing her magic.

Her foster parents—whom she secretly deems closer to her than those biological—encourage her study, as both, with their memories restored by the artful hand of Ambrose, can be no prouder—especially in her choice of husband. They welcome the former Tin Man as any approving parents would, freely accepting of his aloof nature, as they are, undoubtedly, pleased that he protects their little girl with the fierceness and infallible devotion of a lion. And DG can be no happier.

Their guests rarely speak of the goings-on in the palace; and only in some rare event, when her husband is out of earshot, does her sister mention their parents. She tells DG of the latest gossip in Central City, kindly girlish chit-chat almost reminiscent of a time long since passed, when both sisters were sister young and innocent. Of course, they are adults now, and their time together of bonding sisterly affection must, soon, come to an end. Az promises to visit soon, as she takes the advisor's hand, and, with the adjournment of the rest of their company leaves the couple alone once again.

DG smiles at the thought of her sister, content in the knowledge that they shall see each other again very soon—away from the nightmare of their parents and the royal court—to a place where both are welcome. She shakes her head, thinking of the frivolous life she has forfeited.

She does not miss the ceremonies, the fancy gowns, and, God, the many, many suitors. She does not miss falling in step among a royal procession. Nor does she miss her familial obligation, should her sister be unable to ascend the throne, let alone produce an heir to continue the Gale royal line. Nothing will happen to hinder Azkadellia's chances; their mother will not allow it. She is even being courted by the Queen's advisor himself. DG can only smile, thinking of how her friend must have lost the rest of his sanity—if not his heart—to her sister. And Azkadellia is happy. Wondrously so.

For even only with half a brain, her sister no less enjoys the company of their mother's closest confidant; and somehow, if by magic alone, or the come-hither charms, which come so naturally to her sister, Azkadellia always manages to succeed in having him dance with her. She looks so radiant—even more beautiful than when the Witch had possessed her—as companion makes those within the room envious as he remains at the future queen's side. He is no longer left to gather dust in the background, ignored by those whom he might consider a dancing partner. A man like Ambrose is no wallflower; there is too much rhythm in that unfettered soul for him to be. _Just as Wyatt is, in his need to ride out into the sunset, with a pistol at his side, on that white horse of his_, she thinks.

A smile comes to her face, brightening it, just as she turns, finding herself inescapably drawn—matching gazes with the aforementioned man in question. A knowing look flickers in those cold, winter-blue eyes, and DG knows that she is caught.

"Ruminating again?" he queries, all too confidently. "Sometimes I wonder if you're planning on leaving me, to return to the Otherside that so often speak of. You might even call a traveling storm if I'm not careful."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, I can't just click my heels and wish to go back to Kansas, can I?" she teases.

He grimaces, those arms of his tightening around her possessively. "You know you wouldn't get away with it," he says in a raspy voice. "You would not be able to escape me for long. I would find you." That deadpan gaze brooks no way for an argument.

DG suppresses a groan. Yes, that Boy Scout Syndrome of his was working against her tonight. She glowers at him, smacking an irritated hand against that broad chest. He clasps it with his own, holding it, imprisoning it. Her eyes widen, when she catches his smile.

"Careful, sweetheart; even a tin heart can break," he warns, taunting fate, daring her. "I'm not the mechanical wonder people make me out to be, you know; I tarnish and rust, just like any other man. You really should remember that, _princess_."

She snorts at his bravado. "Well, thank you, Captain Obvious, I think I'll keep that in mind—the next time I make _you_ breakfast. It's bad enough that the eggs here are so _oomph_—"

His lips fall over hers, placating, pleasing, provoking, pacifying…just to shut her up. DG grumbles in protest, unable to pull away. And yet, damn it all, it is too good of a kiss to resist—especially from this resolute bear of a man whom she claims a husband. Submitting to his mouth's will, DG delves into the kiss, willingly; for when he kisses her, she finds her left mind in tatters, those lips tearing away every last fiber of her sanity…and it is intoxicating.

The kiss soon ends; and she sees only fascination etched into that chiseled, rugged face. She can hear his heart, its beating that of thunder; and she knows—oh, how she knows the truth—in that ice-cold gaze. He does not regret it; his eyes, even though dulled by darkness and death, express as much, that he is glad of what she had done, that he wanted this, wanted this life. He had shielded her more than only with his name; he had, if in his own belief, prevented her from being a total outcast, a pariah. And in turn, she had taken him in: everything from that steely look in his eye, to that stubborn set in his jaw reminded her of who he was, of the Tin Man he had been, and still, if only in part, was.

And, oh, God, when he kisses her it is almost like losing herself, her very sanity to that one, heartrendingly simple gesture alone. She feels as if she can dance upon air, like her doll once had. _It is his fault, really, _she thinks, as there is no one else in the O.Z.—on the Otherside, for that matter—who can make her feel so. She doubts she will ever find an equivalent to that of the man presently embracing her. She doubts she even wants to.

She is going under, she knows it. She is losing herself completely, as she knows that, too. But for now, she remains at his side, enjoying the feel of his arms and the warmth in his touch—synthetic, as it now may be—upon her skin. He hears her sigh; she knows he does, her body vulnerable to the slightest touch. He kisses her, brazenly so. And she laughs, as both know that he is no longer ashamed to express his feelings, no longer in doubt of her affections. She does not see the old man he believes himself, does not believe she is too young for him, even though she _is_ barely older than his son. He has even confessed as much, but has stopped lamenting the fact, for her sake.

He knows that she loves him. He knows it, just he knows the cold, unfeeling metal in his chest has replaced much of what qualifies him as human. And DG? She cannot help but revel in the secret knowledge that he expresses himself as much as he did before that night when he took a bullet—or seven, more precisely—for her, perhaps even more so now that he is married to her. She loves him, adores him even. For she knows that, with a fragment of her own light, that broken heart in his chest is healed, beating, beautiful, and only hers. It is a metaphorical heart, surely, but still hers.

She almost laughs, tears of happiness brimming in her eyes at the absurdity of it. For indeed, it is a crazy notion to consider, his mechanical heart, since its silent measure is the greatest of music, as the man who inspires it is more than the tin-plated mechanism sustaining him. She is heartened by knowledge of it, her own heartbeat matching his, accompanying it in its gentle rhythm. She hears him whisper something in her ear, that tin heart beating in accordance to his assurance, and she smiles.

His tin heart…

It is all she can ever want.

…

**Author's Note: ****This is, probably, the most insane thing I've ever written. But for some reason, I hope everyone enjoyed reading it, crazy and terribly disjointed as it was. It's probably the most **_**flowery**_** thing I've ever written, too. Oh, well…flowers are nice. I'll probably edit this, anyway, since I am not completely pleased by how it turned out. But then, sadly enough, I rarely ever am with my writing. (Shakes head.)**

**I must also confess that the past and present tenses ****were joined together like that on purpose. It's the first time I've ever used the present tense in such a way. I was experimenting, honestly. I apologize for any confusion that my curiosity might have caused—with the use tense, italics, regular font, and God knows what else. Normally, I only write in past tense, but this story is quite different from my usual writings. Maybe it's because it's contemporary. Who knows?**

**Concerning the plot, since such is probably the most disturbing part of this story, I have to admit that I have a penchant for defining the mysteries of the human heart, and, as in the case of **_**The**__**Wizard of Oz's**_** original Tin Man—who did not have a heart upon meeting Dorothy, whereas Wyatt Cain did, quite literally, when he met DG—I often wondered how Cain would feel if he, in fact, had one that **_**was**_** mechanical. The thought actually came to mind when **_**Tin Man**_** first aired. A completely random thought, I realize, but it stayed with me—even after Part One ended with Cain plunging, seemingly to his death, as he fell into through the ice. At that time, I wondered that, if he did, somehow, survive, if part of him would, eventually, be replaced by tin—as I **_**still**_** cannot see how he got **_**out**_** of the lake, before Ambrose found him. It baffles me. o.0;**

**The title itself, I think, is rather self-explanatory—most specifically, at the end—since a heart does produce its own rhythm and sound. I found an interesting take on something that most, more often than not, never really consider as having a musical quality—not that Cain ever intends to break out into song and sing 'If I Only Had a Heart' or anything. **_**That**_** would be the end of our beloved Tin Man, I think. (Grins.) **

**As for the characters themselves, I tried to remain as true as I could to their personalities, even though I never intended for Lavender Eyes and Ahamo to react the way that the did; it sort of, just happened that way, even though Ambrose and Azkadellia should hopefully, make up for that. Cain and DG were a whole other matter entirely…**

**Really, as a Cain/DG fan, I tried to develop their relationship over the course of this oneshot—which might explain the length—so that their love could be, in fact, believable. I hope that I succeeded in that, at least. Combing both past and present tenses in a story was a bit trying, to be sure.**

**But again, I hope that everyone enjoyed reading this. It has truly been quite an interesting thing, writing this story.**

**All the best,**

— **Kittie**


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